Have the SPINners Stopped Screaming, Clarice?
by The Mad Fangirl
Summary: Here's my Three-Ian-Humorverse fic for Palindrome, and with it, enter a slew of new guest stars! Here's a hint: some of them are both creepy and kooky, not to mention mysterious and spooky.
1. Part One

"Have the SPIN-ers Stopped Screaming, Clarice?"  
  
Longer Summary: Here's the Three-Ian-Etc. humor fic for Palindrome, and man, did that one give me a lot of material. You'll find all kinds of new guest stars in this one, and it's a two-parter, too! Among other things, there will be elements creepy and kooky, and a pair of real American...villains. Well, okay, they might be English; I was never sure. In general, though, prepare for more evil twins than you can shake a stick at! Despite the title, though, no Lambs people; I just thought it fit. Enjoy!  
  
Title: Have the SPIN-ers Stopped Screaming, Clarice?  
  
Spoilers: Through the 8-19-02 episode, "Palindrome." Also, explicit spoilers for the movie "Fight Club," in the notes after Part 2.  
  
Author: The Mad Fangirl  
  
Archive: Wherever, but let me know.  
  
Disclaimer: The characters herein are owned by other people and I make no money from their shameless exploitation.  
  
Author's, er, Quote: "I'm so evil and skanky! And I think I'm kinda gay." - Willow re: Vampire Willow, "Doppelgangland," Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  
  
Part 1  
  
The elegant stretch hearse turned onto Faust Street. The hollow-cheeked driver parked it just outside the gate, then got out. And kept on going and going...when he'd reached his full height of eight feet or so, he leaned over and opened up the back.  
  
Out bounded, first, a man who looked the stereotype of the classic Latin lover, down to the pencil-thin moustache. He looked into the hearse's interior and reached out an arm.  
  
"Morticia, my love," he said, "We're here!"  
  
On his arm emerged a woman of near-emaciated thinness and perfect corpse- white complexion, offset by a black gown tight as a mummy's wrappings and full blood-red lips. After her filed an old woman with bird's nest hair, a monk-bald, heavyset man, and two children, a girl and a boy.  
  
"Is this entirely necessary?" the girl asked in a voice flat as poured concrete.  
  
"Now, now, Aras may be a bit odd, and she may not have the family name, but she is still an Addams," Morticia said, draping herself decorously across the Faust Street gate. "We owe her a social call to see how well she's faring in New York. And if she's dead, we simply must bring her home to the family crypt."  
  
"You think she's dead already?" Grandma asked.  
  
"Always was a bit of an overachiever," Fester commented.  
  
"Now children," Morticia said to Wednesday and Pugsley, "run ahead and announce us. We need a bit of time to make a proper entrance."  
  
"Yes, mother," Wednesday said.  
  
"I think I hear dogs," the pudgy boy said.  
  
"Oh. Then we'd better prepare," replied Wednesday, removing a bottle from her pocket and spraying herself.  
  
"What's that?" Pugsley asked.  
  
"Ammonia."  
  
"Can I have some?"  
  
"No." She removed a pouch of herbs from her pocket and sprinkled them over Pugsley's head. "This is for you."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Parsley."  
  
* * *  
  
Amidst a maelstrom of howling and barking, they made it to the door, which was opened by a girl who looked to be Wednesday's age. She only looked that age, technically Bola was going on four hundred. Not that Wednesday knew this, necessarily, but she tended to be prepared, and was eyeing Bola suspiciously.  
  
"I'm Wednesday Addams," she said, in a voice completely devoid of emotion. "This is my brother Pugsley. Our family is on its way in, just wanted to let you know."  
  
"I'm Bola," replied the girl with brown hair. "Come on in. Would you like some vodka?"  
  
"Absolutely," Wednesday replied. "You should have some too."  
  
"Of course," Bola replied, then, "Why?"  
  
"You'll need it," Wednesday said, and there came a crash from the study.  
  
"Can I have some?" Pugsley asked eagerly, as they all moved in that direction.  
  
"Yes, Pugsley," Wednesday replied in that same flat tone. "You can tell us if it tastes any different when it's on fire."  
  
"Cool!"  
  
Bola shot a mildly incredulous look at them both, then caught Wednesday appraising her in turn. "Nice guns," Wednesday said. "Can I have one?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Oh well."  
  
They followed her in the study's general direction.  
  
* * *  
  
In said room reclined the woman Aras, also called Pagan, the bleach-striped look-alike nemesis of Sara Pezzini. Today, she wore zebra-striped hot pants that flared out at the knee and a cropped black T-shirt that said, in red letters, "I *am* the evil twin." She was currently in the process of draining a large bottle of Old Milwaukee, and when done, chucked it over her shoulder into the fireplace, where it shattered.  
  
"'Nother one, honey?" she yelled. A second later, the current season's Ian Nottingham, third in a series, was behind her, holding two more bottles. She grabbed them both, popping the tops off with her teeth. As he sat beside her on the couch, she twined herself around him, serpentine. At that moment, the prior season's original Ian the First, walked in, giving his brother a glance that was so sidelong, it was perpendicular.  
  
He said, simply, "Have you completely lost your mind?"  
  
"What?" Ian 3 replied.  
  
"Bad enough that you've backslid completely into being Father's little zombie, but this...this..."  
  
"This?" Aras said dangerously, arching an eyebrow.  
  
"This," Ian One said with a sneer. Before things could get entirely out of hand, Ian 3 spread his hands in a placating gesture.  
  
"Look, I'm not certain whether Satan or Conchobar was the last straw, but can you really fault me for taking the advice everyone's been giving me? I was exceedingly tired of being the only one here who'd never played sheik and harem girl, if you know what I mean."  
  
"Hey," Aras said, nibbling on his ear. "Wanna play hide the scimitar later?"  
  
"Oh, God," said Ian One. He forced his eyes away with difficulty. "At any rate, I've come to tell you that you have guests. Aras, your family has apparently arrived for a visit. Bola is bringing them by." He took great satisfaction in watching the prizefighter blanch.  
  
Ian 3 noticed it too. "What's wrong? I know all about your family..."  
  
"No you *don't,*" she said. "Look, Kenny placed me with my folks to make sure I turned out wrong, right? Only, he didn't really know or care who their extended family was. Well, I found out, and believe me when I say that we need to get out of here right..."  
  
"Hello, Cousin Aras," came the almost robotic voice of a girl in black jeans, black jacket, and jet pigtails.  
  
Aras sighed in resignation. "Hello, Wednesday. Pugsley," to the boy who'd accompanied her. "Where, ah...where are your parents?" Ian 3 caught her slight shudder at that question.  
  
"Oh, don't worry," Wednesday said. "They'll be here very soon." Wide-eyed, Aras scouted the perimeter of the room. At about that point, Ian 2.0, season one's evil Nottingham clone, wandered into the room. "Oh, good," Ian 3 said. "He's back. Now you can finally meet the rest of the family." The clown girl Harley Quinn trailed in on his heels.  
  
"Heya!" she said brightly. "You the real thing or the neck-snapping skank?"  
  
"C'mere and find out," Aras purred.  
  
Harley held up her hands. "Hey, no issues here! My puddin' here's been known to enjoy a spot of neck-snapping on occasion."  
  
"Oh, *really,*" replied the white-highlighted killer. Her eyes slid sideways to the short-haired, tiny-bearded version of her lover.  
  
* * *  
  
Ian 2.0's eyes met Aras.'  
  
"Uh-oh," said Ian 3  
  
Aras' eyes met Ian 2.0's.  
  
"Uh oh," said Harley.  
  
* * *  
  
"This is..."  
  
"...not good..."  
  
Ian 3 and Harley looked at each other, identical looks of concern on their faces. Then the window exploded.  
  
Rather, it burst inward as a large object hurtled through it, extending in midair to the figure of a man. He rebounded with spectacular flips off of the interior of the tall, round room until he hit the ground, pulling a rapier from a sheath on his back and shouting "Ha!"  
  
"Oh no," Aras groaned. "It's Cousin Gomez."  
  
The elegant if short gentleman waved his sword, shouting, "A roomful of assassins? Surely one of you dares challenge my skill!" And Ian 2.0 stood, drawing his katana.  
  
"If you'd like to be freed of your earthly bonds, I would be happy to oblige," he said, with his ever-present smile.  
  
"I'm sorry, my good man. I put a great deal of stock in my earthly bonds!" Gomez too grinned wildly, and the battle was joined, mad fencing all around the study, leaping over desks, tables, chairs, and couches.  
  
"Ooh..." Aras said appreciatively. Harley smacked her upside the head. "All right, that's it!" The fighter launched herself at the clown, who danced out of reach.  
  
"What? What?" In the midst of several back handsprings, she bounced high off the head of an eight-foot-tall man who'd lurched in with the rest of the Addams Family. "Can't'cha take a joke?"  
  
Meanwhile, two spirits with a yen for fight spectatorship appeared in the room, Kenneth Irons within a suit of medieval armor and Hector Mobius next to it.  
  
"This is better than pro wrestling," Moby commented.  
  
"Didn't I tell you?" Irons replied, as Ian 2.0 and Gomez danced past, swords glinting. "Five hundred on the doppelganger."  
  
"You underestimate the mythic power of the Harlequin archetype. You're on. Although..." He looked at Irons critically. "You might not want to observe from there."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
*CRASH!* *CLANG!* *THUD!*  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Oops! Hee hee," Harley giggled. "Eep!" She rolled away from the Pagan's leaping attack and the two were off again.  
  
Moby knelt near the open helmet, now lying on the floor. "Two hundred I.Q., and yet nobody ever listens to me. I wonder why that is. Oh, say, Kenneth?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Perhaps you can help me with something. I can't seem to recall how I got out from under that big block of concrete."  
  
"Oh, that's easy. You didn't."  
  
"Ah. Well, that explains a lot."  
  
Also meanwhile, another member of the Addams family tiptoed, or rather tip- fingered, quietly into the room. Thing, for all intents and purposes a severed hand, had a much smaller profile than the rest of the Addamses, and so had to take care that he was not run over by psychotic clones, clowns, or relatives. Spying something odd, he clambered up on an old oak table, next to a vase that seemed to harbor a hand like him. He waved cautiously with his forefinger, then gently tapped the glass. The hand seemed to curl just a little bit, but was otherwise unresponsive. Thing shrugged with his index finger and pinky, and settled in to watch the proceedings, but just then Gomez and his younger opponent leapt to the tabletop, fencing furiously.  
  
"Your form lacks teeth, old man!"  
  
"Yours lacks originality, as do your looks!"  
  
Thing spread all his fingers in shock and jumped down. Maybe it'd be better to watch from the floor. At the same time, Ian 3 deftly reached in to move the hand vase to a safer home for the duration. Thing watched his fellow limb removed to a high shelf and shrugged again.  
  
Eventually, it began to appear that the young, strong psychopath had the older gentleman on the ropes. The elegant Morticia, eyes dewy, clasped her hands to her breast and sighed. A breathless Harley somersaulted up to her and leaned over, saying, "Hey, it looks like my Puddin' might just take out your Puddin.' No hard feelings, huh?"  
  
"Look at him," Morticia replied. "Fighting potential relatives to the death for my honor, just like when we got engaged." She smiled serenely.  
  
"Uh, yeah," Harley replied, sticking out a foot to trip Aras as she made a run at the clown. The doppelganger went skidding into a display stand. Then Harley got a tap on the shoulder, and she jumped. It was the odd girl Wednesday.  
  
"This isn't over," was all the girl said, and the certainty with which it was uttered made Harley just a little nervous. Keeping a weather eye on the stunned Aras, Harley leaned back to watch the main event. Gomez was panting, sagging against the wall by the fireplace. Sword lowered at his eye, Ian 2.0 moved in to place his deadly hand against the other man's neck. He reached...and Gomez grabbed his wrist.  
  
"Ha HA!" Then Ian 2.0 was flying to land on his back on the table, beneath which Thing congratulated himself on his good judgment in moving. An instant later, Gomez had his neck caught between his rapier and a fireplace poker.  
  
"Yield. Or. Die," Gomez said.  
  
"Puddin!" Harley cried.  
  
"No!" a groggy Aras shouted. Ian 3 stared at her.  
  
"Kill!" cried Fester and Grandma.  
  
"I..." said Ian 2.0 haltingly, his smile gone, "I...yield."  
  
"Wuss," muttered Ian 3. Eyes rolled in his direction - his temporal duplicate had heard him.  
  
Gomez lifted the weaponry from Ian 2's neck and rose. He turned to his wife, sticking his sword out blindly behind him to end a centimeter from Ian 2's throat as his opponent renewed his lunge. "Ah-ah-ah," he chided, then leapt to Morticia's side, capturing his wife in a deep swooning kiss.  
  
Thunderous applause burst from every corner of the room.  
  
The mansion residents and the Addamses both spun about, staring at the much larger audience.  
  
"Where..." said Ian 1  
  
"Did..." said Ian 2  
  
"They..." said Ian 3  
  
"Come from," all three versions chorused. The fight spectators had grown to include several identical men in waiters' jackets, dead ringers for one another down to their mismatched eyes. There were also two men in red and blue workout gear, or possibly body armor, also identical save for a scar that marred one across the cheek. They grinned when the Ians spoke in unison. Two women rounded out the group, a short redhead in gothic black, who had an evil grin to match Ian 2.0's, and a tall, cool-eyed brunette with highlights much better executed than a certain look-alike's. It was the brunette who stepped forward.  
  
"They're with me," she said. "Lilah Morgan, Wolfram and Hart, Attorneys. Ms. Aras?"  
  
"Uh...yeah?" said the dazed doppelganger, whom Ian 3 was helping to her feet.  
  
"We need to talk."  
  
* * *  
  
TBC  
  
TMF 


	2. Part Two

"Have the SPIN-ers Stopped Screaming, Clarice?"  
  
Part 2  
  
The identical, odd-eyed men bustled about the room, cleaning up from the multiple battles. One paused next to a black-clad, black-haired girl.  
  
"Everyone has a fantasy," he said. "What's yours?"  
  
"C'mere," the girl replied. He leaned down and she whispered in his ear. His eyes got wider and wider, until...  
  
"Yipe!" he cried, and took off running. His brothers spared him glances, and then got back to their work. Every so often, one would glance back at the black-haired girl, and she would raise an eyebrow. They would then turn quickly back to the maintenance.  
  
"What did you *say* to him, Wednesday?" said a brown-haired girl that looked about the same age (but wasn't). Then Bola held up a hand. "Wait, no, I don't want to know."  
  
Wednesday just shrugged. "Up to you."  
  
The lawyer Lilah Morgan, meanwhile, had settled comfortably into the Irons chair, Ian 3 instinctively fallen in behind her. Aras had grabbed a chair and turned it backwards, straddling it as she faced her. Ian 2.0 appreciated her position, but not too openly, as his girlfriend Harley Quinn was fingering a large mallet, and his second-season brother had his broadsword within easy reach.  
  
"Evil twins have certain specific rights," Lilah was saying. "Each case is demonstrably different, but you should definitely have representation. I'd like to begin by filing a proposal that would have you declared the primary version, making Sara Pezzini the doppelganger. Standard stuff, really."  
  
The blue and red clad twins spoke up, the scarred one beginning.  
  
"You really should let her represent you..." "...she's helped craft precedent in several evil twin cases..." "...even when both twins are evil," they ended, chorusing.  
  
The Ians stared at them. Ian One spoke up. "Do I know you? You look extremely familiar."  
  
"Imagine us in..." "...business suits."  
  
He did. "Ah. Tomax and Xamot, CEOs, Extensive Enterprises. Correct?"  
  
"Exactly," they chorused again.  
  
"I helped them win a personal injury lawsuit against the U.S. Army," Lilah elaborated. "And, got injuries done to one considered injuries done to the other."  
  
"Why..." asked Ian 3, then had his question answered when they both leapt into the air, clutching their backsides. Wednesday stood behind Xamot with a large hatpin.  
  
"What?" she said. "I was curious."  
  
"Hey," Aras said, "You guys are palindromes too!" Her eyes lit up, and both Ians 2 and 3 glared in the twins' direction. Aras noticed. "Hey, c'mon. It's not like I'm gonna jump the Corsican Brothers here. But they *are* good looking."  
  
"Okay, that's it," Harley said, glaring at Ian 2.0 in turn. "You want to fight your brother for the little skank, you do it. I'll just go back to Gotham and Ivy... I mean, Mistah J! Who at least has the decency to stab me in the front! Literally!" With a back handspring, she was out the study door.  
  
Ian 2 looked about, almost apologetically, at all concerned. "Excuse me," he said. Then, "Harley, wait!"  
  
"Anyway," Lilah continued after Ian 2's exit, "that's just an example. Wolfram and Hart also administers a trust for the Isaacs, to distribute the funds from one to all the others in the case of their death."  
  
One of the odd-eyed men spoke up. "We figured if it happens with our strength, it ought to happen with our money." Then Wednesday glanced at him and he went quiet.  
  
"And," she said, "we managed to get Vampire Willow's death invalidated, since it happened in her alternate reality."  
  
The redhead, whose attention had completely wandered following the fight, looked up. "But what you've really got to look out for," she said, "is your good twin getting more evil than you." At Aras' snort, she said, "It could happen! I'm all redundant now." Then she caught sight of Ian 3 for the first time. "Ooh! Puppy!" she cried. An instant later, she was behind him, running a sharp fingernail down his back. "Puppy wanna play?"  
  
Ian 3 suddenly looked extremely nervous.  
  
"Wait," Aras said, suspiciously. "Why are you doing all this?"  
  
"Well, I *am* a lawyer," Lilah responded. "It's not like these services are free. Also, we vicious, streaky bitches have to stick together."  
  
"Well, when you put it that way..."  
  
Ian 2.0 interrupted the company, suddenly, by careening back into the study. His normally sure feet skidded a bit on the floor as he went.  
  
"Excuse me," he asked, his fixed grin somewhat strained, "but did anyone order a mob with flaming torches? Because there's one outside."  
  
"Oh, Gomez!" cried Morticia Addams, who had been sitting, chatting with her family and a pair of Isaacs. "How romantic! Just like our honeymoon!"  
  
"This was not my doing, my love," he replied, "but that doesn't mean we can't take advantage of the atmosphere!" He swept her off her feet and they were away.  
  
"Kids," Uncle Fester said fondly, taking a AAA battery from a sack near his hand, popping it in his mouth, and chewing absently.  
  
The Ians 1 and 3, as well as Tomax, and Xamot, had meanwhile mobilized around Ian 2.0. "Did you notice anything in particular about this mob?" the eldest Ian asked.  
  
"Well, there were a couple of things. First, they seemed to be burning an effigy of Aras there."  
  
"How could you tell?"  
  
"It was wearing a grey hooded sweatshirt that read..."  
  
"Pagan?"  
  
"Skank."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Well, we could always..." "...Send Aras out to them..." the twins suggested, then gulped as Ians 2 and 3 levered swords at their throats. "...just a suggestion," they finished in unison, weakly.  
  
"Also," said Ian 2, sheathing his katana, "most had signs or sweatshirts that read SPIN."  
  
"SPIN. Does that mean anything to any of you?"  
  
Ian 3 wrote it down. He stared at it. "Uh-oh."  
  
"What?"  
  
He drew lines out from each of the letters, so that the acrostic read "S- ara P-ezzini I-an N-ottingham."  
  
"Ah. This could be a problem."  
  
"Not too much trouble..." Tomax began. "...we can have the Crimson Guard here in half an hour..." Xamot continued, "...for a small fee."  
  
Ian One sighed and looked at his brothers. "Do it," he said. "So, we have only to hold out until then. It shouldn't be too difficult...I doubt they can even get inside the mansion."  
  
Of course, as soon as he said this, another body came hurtling through the hole made by Gomez Addams earlier in the day. It was large yet compact, and it spun on its way down, landing in a martial-arts pose directly between Aras and Lilah, facing the former.  
  
"Hiii-yah!" cried the blonde pig with the SPIN t-shirt. Aras just stared, jaw hanging open.  
  
"How could you!" the porcine, pink female continued. "How could you deflower that poor boy and take him away from Sara, with whom we all know that he is meant to be!"  
  
"Deflower? You mean he was a...damn! He sure did his homework," Aras said, admiringly. Ian 3 blushed.  
  
"Leave him alone!" the pig shouted.  
  
"When pigs fly," Pagan said dangerously, getting up to circle her opponent, who turned, keeping her in sight. "So, who are you, besides soon-to-be- bacon?"  
  
"The name's Piggy! *Miss* Piggy. I *love* a good romance, and you just ruined one! You're going to pay! Hiii-yaaah!" Piggy launched herself at Aras, who prepared to block and kick...only to be immobilized by a petite redhead, who had grabbed them both by the collars.  
  
"Bored now," she said. "Go home." Vamp Willow wound up like a hall-of-fame pitcher and tossed Miss Piggy back through the window. As the pig went flying, she cried, "I'll be baaaaaaack..."  
  
"Good lord," Tomax began. "Could this evening..." "...get any more..." "...surreal?"  
  
"If I might make a suggestion," Lilah said from the chair, looking for all the world like a female Kenneth Irons, enough so that Ian the First scrutinized her, but found no evidence of actual possession. "I think a bit of misdirection is called for. Ian 2?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I think many of us feel that you're more Aras' type, with the mutual interests and all. What we need to do is convince the mob outside that she actually slept with you, and not your brother. You're virtually identical, after all."  
  
"I have short hair."  
  
"Well, we can't fool all the people all of the time. Anyone have a better idea? No? Okay then. We need a window that's too high for the mob to rush."  
  
"I think I know one like you mean, in my room," Bola said. "Should overlook the mob, too."  
  
"All right. Let's go." And most of the company filed up the stairs until they bracketed Ian 2.0 and Aras against the torchlight that played across their features.  
  
Ian 2.0 took Aras in his arms and prepared to dip her as his brother had. Aras instead spun him around, pushed him up against the window, and proceeded to maul him mercilessly. The torches seemed to flare a little brighter, the mansion to shake (although that could have been the battering ram at the door; at any rate, it ceased presently). The angered chanting faded to hoots and catcalls.  
  
"Well," said Lilah, "I think my work here is done for now." The assemblage, Lilah in the lead, adjourned downstairs.  
  
* * *  
  
"Well," said Morticia, much later, "that was certainly an interesting evening. And whichever brother she chooses, I think I'd be happy to call either one family. They'll fit right in."  
  
"Oh, definitely," Gomez replied. "Splendid fighters, as well, and they have the most interesting friends!"  
  
"You know, though," Morticia said, "It's odd. I have the strangest feeling we're forgetting something."  
  
* * *  
  
Bola had her room back, finally, and she arranged her weaponry in the small space she'd hollowed out beneath her pillow. She'd changed from her red hood and dress to a pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt, and she was finally ready to just relax. She took a sip of the brandy she'd placed on her nightstand, and then settled back with her hands laced behind her head.  
  
Then came a tap on her shoulder.  
  
She looked to and fro, but saw nothing. Then she looked at her nightstand.  
  
Sitting next to the brandy was a severed hand. It lifted up its index finger and waved.  
  
* * *  
  
On his way to get a glass of water, Ian One heard a scream. It was followed by a female voice crying, "It's loose! The hand is loose! Kill it! Kill it!" This itself preceded the sound of gunfire.  
  
He looked in that general direction, then down at his empty glass, then over at a grandfather clock on the wall. He shrugged and just kept walking.  
  
* * *  
  
END  
  
TMF  
  
Extra Credits: Thanks again to AudreyCherie and TwilightMyst for the brainstorming! Audrey, I wanted to work Dominique in here, really, I just couldn't fit her in. 'Sokay, she may keep 'till later - the idea's still solid. The Hell scene also got cut, alas, but if anyone's wondering what Lupo's doing right now, he's watching Fight Club with a screen crawl that reads "The Narrator IS Tyler Durden."  
  
Rejected titles for this fic included:  
  
"All in the Family,""Streaky the Super-Slut and Friends,""Streaky Strikes Back,""Shoot your Stylist, Sugar,""Skanks in Trouble" 


End file.
